


The Blood is Love

by MisanthropicDragon



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Gore, Needles, tongue bifurcation, unsafe body modication, unsafe medical practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4267764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisanthropicDragon/pseuds/MisanthropicDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Splitter is a finally a warboy. He decides to commemorate the occasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood is Love

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHTY THEN, one of the first fics I've written in... Forever. Honestly this is incredibly self-indulgent and I needed to write my baby torturing himself. This is PRETTY graphic you guys, so PLEASE pay attention to the tags! This is much shorter than I intended.

It had taken weeks to accomplish, but Splitter finally had everything he needed. He had made the decision to do his first big mod on himself. He was finally a warboy, he felt like it was warranted. Most warboys did scarification, which he thought was fine. But he wanted something different. 

He pulls the instruments slowly out of the hole in the rocks he had found. He lays them carefully out, in an almost methodical way. This is important to him, he has to get this perfect. After everything is laid out, he looks at the instruments and lightly brushes a hand along them. He’s scared, of course. Who wouldn’t be? He was doing this alone, after all. Effectively cutting a part of himself open. Okay, yeah, he was fine. Finally, he sits down, cross-legged.

Splitter looks around nervously, not wanting anyone to see him. His bright eyes flicker to the sides, up, down, and sides again. The dusty rock underneath him was pleasantly warm, the early morning sun not yet at it’s peak. This felt sacred, it’d feel almost perverse to have an audience. He grabs the forceps he had lifted from Organic few weeks prior and admires the weight in his hand. They’re hot to the touch, the metal almost burning his fingers. After a few experimental movements with them, he sticks his tongue out. Splitter crosses his eyes to look, then clamps the forceps on his tongue, pulling his tongue out further. 

Suddenly, the reality of it hits him and he’s trembling. Maybe it would’ve been a better idea to get one of the other boys to help? No. He can’t back out and he can’t let anyone else do this. This is his. He breathes out slowly, attempts to steady himself again. Now, his eyes are flicking to the scalpel. The gleam of the metal in the sun distracts him for a moment. He shakes himself back to reality. It’s now or never, he supposes.

He uses his free hand to grab the scalpel and holds it up to his face. It wasn’t so scary, going to Organic is scarier. He pulls his tongue a little further, until it hurts. He’s lowering the scalpel and breathing slowly, calmly. He presses it to the tip and makes a low, guttural noise. The blood trickles down and floods under his tongue. The familiar metallic taste and warmth of the fluid is almost comforting. If anything, it’s just encourages him. 

He keeps going, the scalpel needing a little more force before he hears another wet tearing noise. The blood is filling his mouth faster than he thought it would now, dripping down his chin and neck. As the scalpel keeps going further, the louder he’s getting. Each noise sounds increasingly louder, he can hear his heart beating. The noises Splitter makes are almost provocative, he’s glad no one’s around for this. 

But this is hard to do alone, even he’s willing to admit that. It’s not as neat as it probably would’ve been with another warboy helping him. It’s not one hundred percent straight, but it’s fine. This is for himself and no one else. Why should he care if it’s straight? He makes another incision, more tearing noises, they’d be sickening any normal human. But, Splitter figures, he’s not exactly human, is he? Did all the others think that way? A squirt of blood shoots, and he feels vaguely faint for a moment.

One more cut, followed by a particularly loud groan, and he’s done. Blood is flowing rapidly, filling his mouth and dripping down his throat. He tries to swallow mistakenly, choking a bit. The gagging causes blood to get in his sinuses and drip from his nose at well. The boy scrambles for the needle and thread he’d taken, and quickly threads it and knots it. He grabs a strip of cloth from a pocket and begins wiping as much blood as possible. After enough is gone, enough to allow him to work effectively, he’s picking up the needle and holding his tongue once more. 

He starts from the back left side, sliding the needle through the top. The noises he makes are high and keening. He stitches steadily, making sure it’s tight. The pain feels like nothing compared to the cutting itself did. He’s adamant, and it shows in the care he puts to each stitch. Each time the needle punctures his tongue, another sickening pop is heard. Blood drips from each new puncture, collecting with the rest. 

Maybe he hadn’t thought it through, because he feels light-headed. He blinks a few times, tries to keep himself conscious. His head is swimming with thoughts, he can’t think straight. Suddenly, an idea surges through him and he’s slapping himself, hard. He flinches, not prepared, completely unaware he’s done it. After he’s shocked back to consciousness, he sticks the needle once more. It proves difficult, right now he’s shaky hands and sweaty palms. He fumbles a bit and drops the needle.

He makes something akin to a scream out of pure frustration. He can’t do this, he can’t finish it. But he has to, doesn’t he? Splitter’s mind is racing, his heartbeat erratic. His breaths come out ragged and revolting. The blood bubbles under his tongue and spills more, streaking down his thick neck and broad chest. His eyes flick up briefly, judging by the sun, he’s been out here for roughly half an hour. Fingers delicately roll the needle idly, his eye narrowing as he looks at the streaks of blood. Just once more…

He’s pushing the needle in again, bracing himself for the ‘pop’ of the puncture. He’s slowly getting used to the noise, and continues on. He ties off the thread right, just to be safe. He uses the blood covered scalpel to cut the thread. He breathes hard and heavy, a bubbling noise with each breath. He feels like laughing, but he’s not sure why. The feeling is foreign and he’s not sure he likes it. 

After realizing he hasn’t finished, he scrambles for the needle once more. Splitter’s fingers are big, bulky. It makes it hard to quickly thread the needle, but he tries. After he gets over the initial start of the stitch, each stitch is easier than the previous. But his is more blood than he’s used to losing, it’s not like the bloody noses or knocked out teeth from the underground brawls with his fellow warboy. Splitter can feel the blood caking and drying on his body, only to quickly be soaked with more fresh blood. Two more, only two more and he’ll be done. His eyes are bloodshot, tears dripping from his lashes. He’s slipping the needle in again, with more confidence this time. One more.

It’s hard to get the last stitch so close to the edge of his tongue when his hands are trembling. He feels ashamed to even be in pain. At least this way he has an excuse not to talk for awhile, now. He pushes the needle in and feels a flood of mental relief. He’s done. Thick fingers deftly tying off the stitches, coated in a thick layer of blood and saliva. He takes hold of the scalpel, breaks the thread and holds it in front of his face before tossing it aside. Splitter shakily pulls his hands away from his mouth, lets the forceps drop off into his lap. Doesn’t care about the blood getting everywhere. His eyes close in relief, he’s sure he’s a sight to behold. 

He spits, to the best of his ability, blood splattering on the ground. He’s definitely shaking, perhaps he should go see Organic, as much as the thought unsettles him. A blood transfusion is probably necessary after losing this much blood. He looks down at himself and tenses when he sees the pools of blood gathered in his collarbones and collecting above his scars. Well, that was more than he expected. He sticks his tongue out and looks at it his work. The black thread looks gnarly in his tongue. Okay, maybe it was a slight bit off-center, but it was good for doing it himself. 

Splitter collects all the tools he had and wraps them up in another strip of cloth. He tears off a piece and wads it up, putting it under his tongue. He swallows hard, almost gagging from the amount of blood he’s swallowing. He’s exuding sweat from a mixture of blood loss, heat, and shock. Chills run up his spine, an incredibly unfamiliar feeling. “Yeah,” he grumbles to himself “I should see the Mechanic.” before he can even stand up all the way, he’s toppling over to the ground again. He lays there, eyes open in shock, looking at the sunrise. “I suppose… Sleeping can’t hurt.” he murmurs to himself before passing out.


End file.
